


Follow You

by waywardelle



Series: Pillow Talk [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Not a death fic, Season/Series 11, Suicide Pact, pillow talk verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-15 00:59:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5765626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardelle/pseuds/waywardelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a close call, Sam talks about his inability to deal with Dean's death, and Dean (as always) has a solution for him.<br/>x-posted at pathossam.tumblr.com</p>
            </blockquote>





	Follow You

**Author's Note:**

> I usually don't write dark stuff, but I've been thinking a lot about how buck wild they go over the other's death despite seemingly handling the concept of death pretty well, because of their line of work. This could be triggering to some, because they discuss a suicide pact. Please don't read if this is triggering for you, okay? This not a healthy way to deal-- this is a story about two fundamentally fucked up people who are achingly codependent. Not a real-life solution to a problem, ever.

It was a close call tonight, Dean in the glaring line of fire this time. It’s very rare that Sam uses his size and strength to intimidate people, let alone his naturally domineering brother (the way Sam prefers him, honestly, still that little brother that glows under care and attention), but he’d all but dragged Dean back to their little hobbit hole by the scruff of his neck, yelling about unnecessary risks and wondering aloud just how old Dean was gonna have to be before he fucking grew up.

Sam had stripped them both with military-like precision once back in the safety of Dean’s room (their room), shoving Dean onto the bed on his stomach. He’d crawled over him, mentally counting every freckle, every scar, making sure he was all there, all in the same perfect place Sam had left him in the night before. He bit and sucked and soothed at the skin, feeling Dean’s rumbled moans through his chest, obsessed with the way Dean’s mouth was open, plush lips smashed against the pillow. Sam had tongued at them, too, and Dean had responded, but passively, letting Sam take, letting Sam have him. 

Dean probably would have bottomed for him, too, but it wasn’t about that for Sam. It wasn’t necessarily about possession, because Sam knew by now Dean was his and he knew he was Dean’s, and sometimes it was fun to remind themselves in fucked up little ways like flirting too much with a dazed barfly or letting a drunk redneck look too long at the curve of their ass and spine as they bent over to cue a rack, but this was inventory. This was feeling the heat, the weight, the bumping heart of life, the punching breaths, the choked off sound of his name, it was affirmation that Dean did move in time after all. That he’d heard the click of the safety go off as this week’s villain’s partner crept up while villain number one was monologuing them to death. 

Just four or so inches to the right, four fucking inches, and it wouldn’t have grazed Dean’s shoulder. It would have pierced his heart, and there would have been nothing Sam could have done. Nothing. The brightest light in his world snuffed out, and everything else he loves in his life– his books, his few friends, a nice fire and heady scotch– all of it would have become instantly meaningless. 

So he’d just rubbed himself off against the crack of his brother’s ass, reaching around for Dean at the last minute, who’d been pliant and almost sweet during it all, like he knew how bad he’d fucked this one up, almost letting someone get the drop on him, so he was taking his punishment through Sam’s pleasure. But it wasn’t really a punishment at all, not to Dean, although Sam could understand how the weight of his love could hurt his older brother– but Dean reveled in it, thrived in it, smiled for it. 

“Why,” Sam grits out later, when Dean’s heartbeat is slow and steady and there under Sam’s ear, “why hasn’t the idea gotten any easier?”

Dean hums, still a little sweet, eyes closed, looping Sam’s hair up in a twist before releasing it, over and over again, and the tug on Sam’s scalp has him half-hard again, distantly. 

“I’ve watched you die, known you were gonna die more times in my life than I,” this is what he means, okay, he’s getting choked up and breathless, can’t fucking talk about death like an adult even though they’ve seen so much between them, more than anyone should ever have to, “and it still– I can’t handle it. I’m all logic, right? Most of the time. It’s how I deal.”

Dean grunts, not meanly, but to show he’s listening. His eyes are still closed, but they’re strained, eyelids trembling. He hates this topic just as much, maybe even more because he can’t compartmentalize like Sam can. 

Sam rises, gets an elbow under him so his torso is covering Dean completely, like an umbrella, his hair falling down around them. Dean’s eyes blink open finally, and he smiles for Sam, small but real, giving him permission to continue this painful line of thinking.

“But Dean, I– I lose it. You know that. Everything I’m truly still ashamed of, the things I can’t let go of– it’s the shit I’ve done while you’ve been gone. While you were dead, or. Or times I thought you were. The shit I did to bring you back, or get revenge, like that would’ve helped. Even when you’re gone, I. I can’t see around you. You still shape every thought, every action. I don’t,” Sam drops his head to his brother’s chest, mumbles into it, “I don’t know if I’m saying this right.”

Dean’s hand comes up to his hair, always there when they’re quiet like this. “I get what you’re saying, Sam,” he says finally, his voice rough and hoarse with disuse. This is the first time he’s really spoken since they’d gotten back, too locked up in his own head, own body, concentrating fully on what Sam was trying to communicate to him. 

Sam chews on his lip, wishes he could just mumble the rest of this out in his brother’s chest, where it’s dark and smells like home, like everything Sam has ever, ever loved, but he picks his head back up. 

“There is no grieving process,” Sam says finally. “Well, there is, but it’s not a process. It’s more like a, like a circle. Anger and denial, a little– or a lot– of bartering. But never acceptance. Never moving on. And it’s ridiculous because despite all we’ve done, all we’ve been, we’re still human. We are going to die one day, and chances are it won’t be on the same day, hour, minute, second. There’s gonna be a time where one of us is going to be alive, and the other one will be gone. Truly. For good.”

When Sam looks at Dean’s face again, after he’s done feeling an iota of what it might feel like to know he’s alone in this world, to know his brother is gone beyond the rainbow, somewhere Sam can’t reach, can’t think him or deal him out of, he can hardly breathe. Dean is kind of crying, not sobbing, but there are tears, and he looks like Sam just carved something vital out of him and showed it to him, let him watch it die. 

“You listen to me,” Dean says fiercely, suddenly, grabbing for Sam’s hair so their foreheads are tipped together, sharing humid, hurt breaths, “if you think for one second I’m lettin’ you leave me here, you’re wrong. Wherever you go, Sam, I follow. It’s always been that way, it will always be that way. There ain’t no forgetting, ain’t no moving on. There’s nothing in my life that I want or need without you there, do you get that? Why do you think I always carry that little pistol in my boot, huh? With the one bullet?”

“Dean,” Sam all but sobs, understanding, “no, that’s not–”

“And you don’t have to do it, Sam, god knows if you think you’re strong enough then you move on, you find a way. I’ll miss you, I,” Dean is wheezing between words, like he’s sucking them up from some dark place and every single one of them is costing him something vital, “wherever I go after this, I’ll miss you until you get there, but I would wait a hundred thousand eternities for you, Sam. But if you don’t wanna wait, don’t wanna move on, you need to know that’s why I carry it, Sam. In case something like tonight happens and it goes wrong, and there’s no time, and you don’t wanna be taken out by the monster of the week, you get that pistol, and you come find me. i’ll be waiting, okay?”

“Christ,” Sam bites out, openly sobbing, clinging to his brother. This is some fucked-up shit, but it gives Sam comfort that Dean has a plan, always has a plan, even in the worst possible situation. His big brother, always looking out for him. “I just, I just told you, Dean. There’s no moving on from this, and I always, if I have a choice, I always wanna be where you are. Wherever that is, if we get to rest in Heaven or scream in Hell, or if they decide we’re monsters after all and throw us in Purgatory, I don’t care. I’ll take it.”

Dean’s nodding, running his hands down Sam’s long back, his callused hands smoothing the trembling muscles. He kisses at Sam’s wet face, sucks at his tears, rubs his nose against Sam’s, pressing soft, hurt sounds into Sam’s mouth. “Okay,” he says finally, sniffling greatly, like he’s reeling it all back in. “Okay, baby. Hey,” he chides in a low, big-brother voice, “that day is not today, Sammy. I’m right here, huh? Right here.” 

He takes Sam’s hand, wraps it in his fingers, using it to smooth down his chest, over his flanks, letting Sam feel the warm skin, the proof of life. Dean hums as Sam picks up the motion himself, still holding onto Dean’s hand, but guiding them now. He presses hard against Dean’s heart, runs a thumb along the bandage where the bullet barely clipped his bicep, ducks a kiss against his brother’s neck that’s still holding a lot of saline, where it pooled from Dean’s tears. 

“We’re alive, huh?” Dean asks him, using his free hand to move hair out of Sam’s face, smiling up at him. 

“Yeah,” Sam smiles back, and it’s the most fucked up thing of his life, that this, this suicide pact he and his brother just sealed is making Sam finally comfortable with the idea of death after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Scared about this one. Let me know your thoughts? Love you all so much. xoxoxo


End file.
